


each window has its watcher wan

by ephraim winslow (anangokaa)



Category: The Lighthouse (2019)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Rewrite, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, basically spoiler free
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 02:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21291857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anangokaa/pseuds/ephraim%20winslow
Summary: That scene in the shed really got me thinking.
Relationships: Ephraim Winslow/Thomas Wake
Comments: 9
Kudos: 79





	each window has its watcher wan

Ephraim sighed, hand twisting and sliding like the tides rolling over shores and retreating back, roiling and growing in strength, feeding an ache. Barely a difference existed to his eyes when opened than when they were not in the dimness of the four wooden walls, and though the air outside was chilly, his growing frantic breaths warmed both himself and the interior. His weather and labor beaten body longed for some release; he sensed it growing ever closer, his pulse picking up speed until it damn near came to a halt when the door of the shed snapped open and crashed into the wall. 

Ephraim’s panic-stricken hands began attempting to button his trousers without turning to face the open door, crisp air raising goosebumps all ‘long his forearms as the space filled with cantankerous laughter.

“Look at ye,” he sneered, howls subsiding. A lit lantern dangled in his grip. “Draggin’ yerself to hell, one hand’s breadth at a time.”

The buttons cooperated enough to allow Ephraim to face the man, angling himself slowly, mind sprinting for anything intelligent to say, but alas, words failed him.

“On this rock less than a week and yer already needin’ privacy?”

“Aye, sir, I’d suppose so,” he answered, sheepish. The man placed the lantern on the floor at his own feet, and then straightened his stance.

“Continue, then, lad,” he commanded, unmoving. An expression of relief preceded a storm of confusion and utter astonishment that spilled across Winslow’s face.

“You must be joshin’, sir, surely,” he sputtered. 

“I ain’t laughin’ anymore, lad, am I? Now, get up to it. I’ll even give ye a bit o’ guidance.” He closed the door again and approached the younger man, whose lips were curled into a discomforted sort of scowl, though it was mostly shrouded by his thick, dark mustache. “Make it easier on yerself,” he spoke in a tone that had lost half of its gruffness, but none of its control. His grizzled fingers undid the clasps of Winslow’s suspenders, startlingly gentle, yet still authoritarian, reaching next for the buttons of his trousers. Winslow’s initial protests fell to the side as he became entranced with the visual and physical sensation of the older man’s hands deciding what to do with his clothing. 

Less gently, he yanked Ephraim’s trousers to his ankles, thighs and calves reflecting amber in the glow of the lantern. He left the trousers to act as a restraint for the younger man’s ankles and forced his knees closer to the floorboards, leaving his lower half positioned in a diamond. Heat rushed into his cheeks and a hushed gasp escaped his lips, and he made eye contact with the other briefly, discovering an expectant look.

“Go on, lad.”

“A-... Aye, sir.” Hands shaking with excitement and hesitation alike, Winslow dragged the side of his palm down his torso before gingerly wrapping his fingers loosely around his half hard cock. The juxtaposition of familiarity with his own body and novelty of the circumstances gave him a rush like none other, and with minimal contact, the head of his cock glistened. He stared at the floor next to his legs, his heart pounding fierce inside his chest as he worked the wetness over the rest of his shaft, skating his hand from top to bottom. His mouth fell open and his eyes became half-lidded, feathery eyelashes clashing gorgeously against his sharp facial structure and mustache. Sweat started appearing on his forehead and a pink blush creeped into his neck, leaving the man to wonder if Ephraim’s chest held the same coloration.

“Look me in the eye, lad,” the harshness of his voice had made a return.

“Aye, sir,” Ephraim’s cheeks burned brighter still. He tightened his grip on himself and jerked faster, eyes meeting the twinkle of the seasoned wickie’s eyes when they were not rolling back into his skull. Almost involuntarily, his hips swept up towards his hand, knees driving down into the floor. Groans broke roughly out of his throat, and he could feel his control crumbling as his body moved more and more against his palm and away from it, eyes locked on the other’s. Waves bowled through him until they collided with the cliffs and transforming into ocean spray. A moan that longed to be let out ripped out of his vocal cords, his body weaving through its final jolts as he came all over his hand and the floor below, breathless and shut-eyed.

He took a moment to regain his breath, eyes still sealed while his flushed skin recovered. When he felt relaxed once more, he opened his eyes and found himself alone in the shack, dark as ever.

**Author's Note:**

> Was it all in his imagination? You decide, dear reader.
> 
> The title comes from Sarah Orne Jewett's poem, The Widows' House. You can read it here if you're interested: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51982/the-widows-house 
> 
> I tried to cram in some reading from the 1890s, especially set in Maine, before jumping into this so as not to fuck up the way they speak, but I also didn't want this idea to fully get away from me since I saw the movie today, and I always worry I'm going to forget details.


End file.
